


let's make this our story

by apatternedfever



Category: Chess - Rice/Ulvaeus/Andersson
Genre: F/F, past Anatoly/Florence and Anatoly/Svetlana, post-Chess
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-24
Updated: 2013-12-24
Packaged: 2018-01-05 22:57:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 891
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1099566
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/apatternedfever/pseuds/apatternedfever
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Svetlana is lonely, and Florence is there, and that's all the excuse they need.</p>
            </blockquote>





	let's make this our story

**i.**  
Six years since Bangkok, and Florence Vassy still looked as beautiful as she had the day of the match. She hadn't been young even then, if Svetlana remembered correctly, and by now she must be at least forty. Yet she could still see the attraction. No, Miss Vassy did not look her age. Svetlana drew back into the shadows, the same shy movement her son had made as soon as he saw the stranger at the door.

" _Zdravstvujte_ ," the woman said, and though she did mispronounce the word slightly, the quiet greeting was carefully spoken. Svetlana appreciated the gesture.

"Hello." She saw the silent relief as her own response was given in English -- careful and accented English, but well-spoken nonetheless.

"Are you.... Do you remember me?"

She almost laughed, almost let slip the sarcastic answer on the tip of her tongue, but she stopped herself in time. "Yes, Miss Vassy, I remember you."

"Please call me Florence."

Svetlana nodded, but she knew she wouldn't. How could she address the woman as if there was no reason to hate her? Anatoly's second, Anatoly's whore, Anatoly's love.... But there was less venom even in her thoughts than there might have been two years ago. Or perhaps it was just that her hatred was for Anatoly himself now, and Miss Vassey no longer mattered. Surely by tomorrow she would be gone, and this meeting barely remembered.

It had been so long since she had adult company. And whatever Miss Vassy was here for, she was someone to speak to, if only for a moment.

"It is starting to rain," Svetlana said, abruptly.

"What? Oh.... I barely noticed."

"Would you like to come inside?" At the woman's hesitation, Svetlana added, "The storm will not last long. There's no reason for you to get wet."

"Alright," Miss Vassy said, and though her voice was uncertain, she stepped inside.

 

 **ii.**  
The storm outlasted the sun, and threatened to continue well into the night. It seemed only sensible to offer Florence -- she was Florence then, after four hours of conversation, of dancing around sensitive topics and slowly shedding old perceptions -- a bed for the night.

It was a small house, with an uncomfortable couch. And the bed was big enough for two. She had never gotten rid of it.

She was lonely, and needy, and willing to accept even a mockery of intimacy to be held for a night.

Florence was gentle. Her hands traced Svetlana's body, fingers trailing lightly over arms and legs, baring skin, brushing over stomach and breasts and thighs. She kept her eyes closed, let her hands wander where they may. Svetlana wondered, just for a moment, if Florence was seeing Anatoly's face. Svetlana wasn't, but she had no time to think about what that meant.

She muffled her cries as she came with Florence's fingers inside her, biting her lip and pressing her mouth into Florence's shoulder, not trusting the thunder to drown her out. Florence made no sound, save for a murmured _Ohohoh_ as Svetlana pressed the first kiss between her thighs.

It may have been a trick of the light, but Svetlana thought she saw a small, content smile cross Florence's lips as she fell asleep.

The storm had ended by the morning, but there was no talk of Florence leaving.

 

 **iii.**  
If there was a reason Florence had come, she never brought it up. She adjusted easily to life as Svetlana had been living it -- and to the children, who took to Florence more quickly than Svetlana thought they would. Perhaps it was because Florence was a new person to talk to, or perhaps they could just see how much happier Svetlana was with another person in her life.

The void left by Anatoly's departure slowly began to fill again. Florence was nothing like her ex-lover, she didn't even mention chess anymore, yet with her there, the household was alive in a way it hadn't been the past two years. At first, despite her happiness, Svetlana was wary, not sure if this was a penance for tearing their family apart so many years ago, or if Florence was happy here as well.

But months passed, and Florence never discussed leaving. She seemed perfectly content, living in their home, sleeping in Svetlana's bed.

If she was seeking forgiveness, she asked for it only through inaudible whispers against Svetlana's skin at night, and took her answer in the sound of nails scraping down backs and skin rubbing against skin.

 

 **iv.**  
They are not saints, and they don't pretend to be. They have both made mistakes in the past, more mistakes than they can count. Yet when Svetlana sheds her clothes and slides into bed next to Florence, she feels as though she's shed her sins as well.

Svetlana has never been religious. She believes in God because it's easier than not believing. She believes in an afterlife only because it makes it easier to get through the day. But the first pressure of Florence's lips against her skin, the brief brush of gentle fingertips over her body -- this feels holy in a way prayer never has.

Florence is not an angel. She is a woman, with a past Svetlana knows almost nothing about. But she is also a kind of savior, bringing the salvation of caring, and the possibility of love.


End file.
